


It’s All About the Two M’s:  Movement and Positioning

by Shanola



Category: Terry Pratchett - Discworld
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:39:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shanola/pseuds/Shanola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wrong turn in the library leads to an interesting match.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s All About the Two M’s:  Movement and Positioning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unveiled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unveiled/gifts).



There was a _Ping!_ , then a _Thump!_ , and after a moment or two, a quiet “ook” and the rustling sound of a book being lifted. Faded, embossed gold letters were stamped across the front:

 _The Official and Published Laws of the Game (and also rules, caveats, clauses, and the penalties of careless, reckless, and excessive forces, magical and physical, and other notes and limitations that can drastically change the outcome of the Game but in no way are meant to control the Game or the people who participate within its context.)_

Much more interesting was the prone form of a man wearing a black suit and what appeared to be some sort of rounded hat. Instead of sporting a full beard, the man had only a thin mustache. The Librarian reached out one orange foot and picked the gentleman up, tucked the book into the waistband of the man’s trousers, then swung away. Not for the first time, the Librarian was glad he had chosen to remain an orangutan; four hands were more convenient than two, after all.

\--

“Today’s game should prove interesting, Drumknott,” Lord Vetinari said as the door opened.

“Yes, sir,” Drumknott said as he placed a tray of papers on the desk. “Do you think they have found a replacement referee yet?”

Vetinari signed the paper he had been reading, then put it aside as he reached for another. “Yes, very interesting indeed.”

Drumknott did not reply, as none was needed, and crept away and quietly closed the door.

\--

“Four years, Stibbons! Four years and they’ve almost completely rebuilt the whole university,” Ridcully huffed.

“Yes, Archancellor. Although I do not believe they have rebuilt their version of Hex,” Ponder Stibbons replied as he struggled to keep pace and not drop all of his books.

“Yes, yes. And now the game is upon us. Have they managed to rebuild their team? That’s what is important!” Ridcully lengthened his stride, lost in the fervor of his speech. “I refuse to let that upstart be called Archancellor. They cannot win.”

“I don’t think-“

“Well, well. Just so. Professor Macarona has had good knees for the last three years. Wonderful things,”

Ponder thought about this for a moment, then ventured, “Knees?”

Ridcully didn’t even slow down, “Knees, yes and the things Doctor Lawn can do these days.”

“Ah,” Ponder nodded. “It has been suggested that several igors--“

“Quite popular with the common man, Professor Macarona, don’t you think? Has a way with lads, a special bond. They seem to want to emulate him in a way. Only one quite like him. But if I never hear that chant for him again, it will be too soon. Gets stuck in your head, doesn’t it? One Makaronah, only one Makaronah, One Makarao-naaaah*,” the last had a slight lilt to it.  
*The chant Ridcully is referring to is much better than the song the choirmaster had originally come up with for the Unseen Academicals. It was also much better than the second song the choirmaster had created for Professor Bengo Macarona, which started “Macarona Unum Est., Certes Macarona Est. and ended with a full list of Professor Bengo’s titles (at Professor Macarona’s insistence). The middle is best left forgotten.**  
**Notes generally go at the bottom of the page or to one side, but as this really has no bottom, only an end, and the author is not all that great with formatting things, Notes will go wherever they please.

Ponder didn’t have a chance to reply before Ridcully continued.

“The field is in order is it not, Stibbons?”

“Oh, yes. We have laid out fresh chalk and hired several linemen from the league to be assistants to the referee. They had to pass a test of the rules.”

“A written test!” Ridcully exclaimed. “Remarkable.”

“Yes, it was,” Stibbons said. “In fact, meaningless marks covered the pages. We had to switch to a verbal test instead.”

Ridcully stopped abruptly, but only because they had reached the door to the dining hall, and it was closed.

“But they passed?” he asked as he reached for the doors.

“Oh yes.”

“Good! We need a good referee. Preferably one who is on our side.”

“Er, yes. About that…”

\--

People flowed through the city streets like a river, and some flowed like the river Ankh, which means they didn’t flow so much as come to a thick, sludgy crawl. Those who stopped or dallied acted like rocks and the crowds parted easily around them. Some who stopped were washed over, and some dammed things up to a standstill. A few had a smooth course and found themselves in their seats waiting patiently (or impatiently), for all the rivers to converge and fill the stadium in a vast lake of people.

On the field, the two teams jogged, jostled, and stretched. Balls were dribbled, kicked and recovered. Gardeners worked to repair chalk lines. Ladies in shockingly short skirts that showed almost their entire lower leg stood shouting encouraging things to the players, such as “Touch yer toes!” and “That’s right! Do it again!” Occasionally, they dissolved into giggles and hid their flushed faces behind huge poms of torn paper.

Finally, the stadium was full and the teams jogged to their sidelines. From one end of the field, tow men, a dwarf and a troll stalked forth. Except for the troll, they were wearing short black pants, tall striped socks and alarmingly yellow shirts. The troll had an alarmingly yellow rag tied around each arm and an alarmingly yellow loincloth. Silver whistles dangled from each of their necks, while one man carried an enormous clock and the other had the Official Ball tucked under his arm.

As they made their way to the middle of the field, two players from each team jogged to the center. They all met in the middle.

Ridcully eyed the former Dean and so-called Archancellor of Brazeneck University, who eyed him back.

“Henry,” Ridcully said, and managed to sound quite civil.

“Mustrum,” the former Dean nodded.

“Gentleman!” the referee said as he placed the official ball onto the field. “I’m sure you are familiar with the Laws of the Game and, er, all the clauses listed therein.” He patted his chest as if looking for something, seemed reassured when he found the whistle, then continued. “We shall have a fair game, and may I remind that you may not stampede or damage the referee in any way?” He nodded at each of the men around him. “Also, these are the, er, Guardians of the Lines, Mr. Stronginthehead,” he gestured to the dwarf, “and, er, Mr.—“

“Crag,” the troll said.

“Right, Mr. Crag,” the referee said. “And Mr. Windemup is the Official Keeper of the Time of the Game, I’m sure you can tell.”

They all nodded to each other in agreement.

After an awkward moment of silence, the referee continued. “And I am Mr. Browne, sirs. Shall we play?” The Official Keeper of the Time of the Game headed to the sideline while the two Guardians of the Lines moved to their positions. The teams poured out onto the field and lined up.

Mr. Browne raised his arm, put his whistle to his lips and blew the game into existence.

\--

The noise was amazing, almost louder than the Blitz. Emelius Browne wasn’t quite sure what to make of this crowd. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of *where* he was, either. Had he really just introduced a troll and a dwarf as linesman? Or rather, as Guardians of the Line? Was that man, Dibbly? Dibbler? Dumbly? Actually selling pies made from rats?

Browne dodged to one side as the ball came rolling by followed by a player with a long beard and wearing a pointy had that had Wizzard written across the front. Immediately, the player turned and headed in the opposite direction, and away from all of the action.

Mr. Browne shook his head but didn’t have time to wonder as play continued.

Unseen Academicals; that was the team in the red shirt with the odd “UU” on the front. The Brazeneck Conjurers wore green shirts. It looked a bit like Christmas had exploded on the field and was running around after its loose balls.

Er, yes. Browne was very glad he had not said that out loud.

 _Gloing!_ The ball whizzed past only inches from his head.

“Run, run as fast you can, can’t catch me, I’m faster!”

For a moment, Browne was certain the ball had been speaking as it flew past. He put the thought out of his mind and followed the ball.

One red shirt had the ball and dribbled it past a green shirt, then the green shirt tackled the red shirt just as he passed the ball downfield. A red shirt in a sea of greens jumped up and redirected the ball with his head, which sent it spinning across the field. Another red shirt magically appeared* and ran down the field, the ball seemingly attached to his feet.  
*No real magic was used for this event, just running and jumping.  
There were green shirts all around but the red shirt seemed to dance around them all before heaving a mighty kick and sending the ball soaring toward the goal.

The goalkeeper leapt, arms out, in a magnificent effort, but the ball refused to be cradled in his palms, kissed the fingertips as it sailed by and was caught in the act by the waiting net.

SCORE!!!

The crowd went wild!

“Boo! Hiss! Way to go! Ner, ner, ner!” they screamed. The red shirt who had scored marched across the penalty box, raising his legs high in an odd strut, encouraging the crowd. A chant broke out in varying waves and speeds. All Browne could make out was the final, drawn-out word: “Maka-rooooooonah!”

Finally, Browne recovered the ball, settled the field, and play resumed.

Things got nasty after that. Red shirts were mixed with green shirts. Green shirts shoved red shirts, red shirts shoved back. Green shirts slid smoothing into red shirts and both players writhed on the ground for a few minutes as the ball was taken up by yet another.

To be honest, while he was sure there fouls right and left, he was too confused to call any of them.

And then, in the midst of a mix of red and green, a tiny blue figure jumped up and nailed a green shirt dead on the head; the green shirt hit the ground hard and didn’t move. Brown blew his whistle.

 _PPpppppppppppppphhhhhhhhhhhhhttttttttt!_

He ran to the offender and pointed at him. Or it, as the case may be. Mr. Browne had never seen such a tiny man before. Six inches at the very most with shocking red hair and blue tattoos that covered every visible part of his body. For a moment he just pointed, stunned at the tiny, furious creature before him.

“Who, me?” the wee man said, and had the audacity to look innocent. Mr. Browne pulled out a Yellow Card and held it up.

The small man’s eyes widened in horror. “Waily, waily!” he cried. “I’ve bin givin a summonses!”

Another player stepped in. “No, Wee Willy Winkle. It’s just a warning. No more head knocks this game.”

“Nae more heid knocks?” the creature said. (what was it? A sort of pixie or brownie or something??) “Crivens, thems fightin’ words, they are!” he raised his fists at Mr. Browne. “C’mere, ye scunner!”

Ah, leprechaun maybe?

“Sorry, guv,” the other player said as the creature was escorted from the field by another player. “It's the way of the Nac Mac Feegle to fight, you know.”

Mr. Browne blinked. Nac Mac what? He nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. Resume play!”

And play they did. Opponents ran this way, and then they ran that way, and soon they weren’t sure which way they were running. Mr. Browne wasn’t sure which direction they were going, but he was more concerned about staying out of their way. He had been trampled in a previous football match and he didn’t care to repeat the experience. Of course, he could very well wake up and find this all a dream. Any minute now. Any minute, he was sure.

Mr. Windemup called the first half.

\--

And then that was that. Mr. Browne made his way off the field in search of a towel and some water, or perhaps a good stiff whiskey, when he was met by another referee and the Librarian.

“Ook,” the Librarian said.

It was amazing how much a simple “ook” could convey. Also, the pointing didn’t hurt his understanding either.

“I see,” Mr. Browne said. “You have discovered the formerly missing referee.” He nodded to the other man. “Sir.”

“Yes, yes, I’m very vexed by all of this. Or Hixed, as the case may be,” the new referee said, a little flustered.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Derst,” a tall wizard, dressed all in black and wearing a skull cap appeared beside him. “It is the nature of the assignment I have been given.”

Mr. Browne couldn’t help but look confused.

“I am the head of the Department of Post-Mortem Communications, after all,” he said and sounded sincerely apologetic.

“Post-Mortem Communications?” Mr. Browne exclaimed. “Do you mean to say you are a necromanc—“

“Most certainly not!” Dr. Hix said. “We have come a long way from those dark times. The fading name on my door is merely a coincident. And now, if you gentlemen will excuse me?” Dr. Hix gave a small bow and strode away in a billowing of black cape.

Mr. Browne and Mr. Derst watched him leave.

“So,” Mr. Browne found himself saying. “You were caught and held captive in order to miss this most important game?”

“Yes. He found me in the study with a feather-duster, as a matter of fact. I never saw him coming and then I couldn’t get myself free,” Mr. Derst said.

“A feather-duster?”

“The maid was holding it.”

“Ah.” Mr. Browne felt there was no need to go any further along on this line of conversation.

“Ook,” the librarian said.

“Yes, yes. I think you are quite right.” Mr. Browne held out his hand to Mr. Derst. “Good luck,” he said. “The small blue fellow may cause you some problems. He already has one yellow card.”

Mr. Derst started. “They let the Nac Mac Feegle play?” He was still muttering as he took the cards and whistle and marched away.

\--

Unseen University was actually quite like other universities he had seen before, except, perhaps, for the spiraling towers and the vast amounts of food loaded on a passing tray. And the portraits of past wizards. And the statues of past wizards. But the halls, ah, the halls were familiar.

He had never seen a library with most of its books chained down, though. The Librarian swung to his place above a desk, picked up a banana, tossed the peel to one side, and ate it.

A banana sounded pretty good, but something told Emelius that shouldn’t try to take one; it was never a good idea to try to take a banana from an ape. His fingers curled into the protection of a fist. No, no bananas today.

“Ook,” the Librarian said and swung away down between a row of books.

Emelius followed him, down a long row of shelves, around a corner, up two stairs, down four more and through an arch. He seemed to be gaining momentum. Suddenly, the Librarian swung to one side and disappeared.

“Er,” Emelius said and took a step forward. “Hullo?”

The light seemed to be dimmer now and getting darker with every step. “Mr. er, Librarian?” he said as he took another step forward. Something brushed his face. It felt like tree. No, it felt like a coat. It was completely dark now and Emelius was feeling his way through. He put is hands out and felt a wall. He should have never trusted the orangutan, he thought. Had he learned nothing on the Island of Naboombu?

“Drat!” he said and leaned against the wall, which promptly revealed itself to be a door, which he, in turn, promptly fell through.

When his head cleared, he picked himself up from the floor and stared at the wardrobe in his own room. “I’m home,” he said. “I’m home!”

“Of course you are, dear,” Eglantine said. “Now please come to bed. And turn off the light as you do. Thank you.”

\--finish--

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for the slight crossover here; I just couldn't get it out of my head. So, um, thanks to Disney for loaning me two characters from Bednobs and Broomsticks?
> 
> Also, please note the title is paraphrased from a quote by Ron Atkinson.
> 
> And finally, a huge Thanks to my awesome beta reader, who jumped in to help me at the last minute.


End file.
